


New Girl

by Hermione14



Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Midtown High School, New Beginnings, Pre-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Spider-Man - Freeform, almost canon compliant, imagine any actor you want but he’s plopped in the homecoming setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 03:01:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17459354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermione14/pseuds/Hermione14
Summary: Eliss Sparrow moves across the United States to Forest Hill, New York. With it being new opportunities, and new friends. Including the one and only: Spider-man! Yeah, she’s not that impressed.





	New Girl

**Author's Note:**

> just give it a try m’kay? and please comment hate down below :)

With a sigh I tapped the snooze button on my phone in case I fell asleep once more before turning to face the blank wall blinking back at me. I know I will not be falling asleep again, already I feel the pinprick of nerves under my skin and the steady thump of my heart against my chest. In my experience humans tell themselves that when they get into high school it will be impossible to feel nervous due to how many times you've endured this, but for me it would be impossible to stay calm. All my days I have attended one school with the same kids in the small town I had loved since before I could walk. From a very young age it became rapidly apparent I had 'above average' intelligence, therefore I was put with all the other smart kids in school and together we moved from elementary school, to middle school, to high school. This constellation aided to us all becoming rather close. I had a best friend as well as over a dozen close friends all just a phone call away if needed. At the half point of my sophomore year of high school my dad got a better job in Forest Hills, meaning moving all the way to New York.

Obviously I was reluctant to the complete uproot to the only life I had ever known, decrying the entire situation to my father day and night as an unfair decision that did not take my opinion nor my life into consideration. Needless to say my father tolerated my tenacious rants for a few days before telling me it was finally enough, quelling my arguments with a one-way guilt trip. He spoke of a better life that awaited us in New York. We did not have a lot of money, something he was always ashamed of. I never understood his shame, happy with the life I had the privilege to live, though after his speech he rendered me to embarrassment. With the death of my mother so little ago I would do anything to bring my father the tiniest sliver of peace. Not commenting on my caprice, my father and I packed up our tiny house before moving across the country to our new home. We spent a merely half a week unpacking, eating ordered pizza along with coffee. The night the last box was emptied as well as binned my father announced we were going out to dinner somewhere that had no pizza on the menu. We ended up at a lunch/dinner restaurant called The Grill. Dad ate octopus (which I did not partake in), we both had salmon until we could not eat anymore, with mango sorbet for dessert. It was the best food I had had since my dad used to cook when I was little. It was my first look at the better life he had talked about. When I saw the bill I felt close to fainting, even with my aunt offering to split the bill. Despite all this my dad simply shook his head as he payed the whole thing. 

I can do this move for him. The charge of determination driving me I get up, swinging my legs over the side of my (new) bed, wiping my exhausted eyes. Luckily I woke up with plenty of time to get ready — something that is not likely to last — with an hour and a half before I should be pulling out of the driveway.

"Eliza!" Dad shouts from the bottom of the stairs, "I have banana pancakes."

I fist bump the air in personal celebration before marching down the stairs in search of the God's gift to creation as the best breakfast under the guise known as 'banana pancakes.' Like pancakes, however healthier for you. Almond butter pancakes were a close second, make no mistake. Skirting around the corner my stomach comes in contact with the island I was not accustomed to be in the middle of our kitchen. Not even the enticing aroma of banana and coffee can cure the pain. Rubbing my stomach with a twisted look on my face I ask, "Are there chocolate chips in them?"

Dad turns around with amusement at my tone of a child who just skinned their knee, setting a plate in front of me. "Doing anything else for your first day? Slander."

"Glad we're on the same page." I chuckle. Pulling the plate closer to me I climb into our bar stools, proceeding to drown the cakes in maple syrup. Dad hums to himself, impeccably dancing around the kitchen, periodically flipping pancakes or sipping coffee with frothed milk on top. This scene of serenity endures for a few moments (and, more importantly, a few bites) before dad brings up the dreaded topic.

"So, how are you feeling about your first day?" He posed innocently leaning against the counter, tipping his cup up so all that is visible to me is his quirked eyebrows displaying a sardonic disposition. 

I set down my fork. "It's not a big deal, dad. We both have first days today, remember?"

He scoffs, turning and setting his coffee down before dripping more batter into the pan. His eyebrows scrunch as he thinks of his first day at his new company. "God, don't remind me. I've been nervous all morning."

"You'll do great." I say, waving him off and taking another bite.

"You too." He insists, brandishing a spatula at me. 

I roll my eyes. 

"Hey! If I'm going to believe you you have to believe me."

"That's confusing. My head hurts." I respond mostly to avoid his statement. He shakes his head at me as I place my plate in the sink, muttering to himself, "I thought she was in honors classes or something." 

Ignoring him I rush up the stairs to the bathroom to begin getting ready for school. All through washing my face, brushing my teeth, doing my makeup, and getting dressed I imagine this school. I have been there once to sign up for classes. It allowed me to see the school, huge and painted in neutral colors much like all the other schools in the world. This was a nice safety net for my day today, however it did not allow me a view on the students. Sure, the place was swimming with them but I knew no names and the faces have blending into each other into my brain until I can no longer distinguish a unique face. I can not help but hope I find my endgame friend today, the one whom I will be able to follow like a lost puppy, though this is most likely wistful thinking. 

My phone beeps, alerting me of the five minutes I have yet before I should be driving away to go to school. I curse under my breath as I frantically fishtail my brown hair to the side. This morning I took it out of a plait. It's almost always braided. Bounding the finished look I scan my room for anything I might be missing before grabbing my bag and dashing down the stairs. Dad is waiting by the door with his keys in hand. "We're getting coffee."

I pull my phone up as the screen illuminates to display the time. Still twenty minutes left until my impending doom. "You read my mind."

-

My first day of school begins and ends with coffee, as I sit in a small café after my last class, tucked in a corner with my laptop, reflecting on the day I have had. Of course I knew this new school would be different, but nothing could prepare me for the magnitude of change I am being forced to go through. Everyone traipses through the halls with clothes more expensive than mine, looking as though they were set to strut down a red carpet rather than a humble high school hallway. Except, in this instance, not even the hallways are humble. In pristine white they tower over you, paintings done by students hanged periodically as if it were an art museum. The paintings themselves are exceptional. I read every tag: 'Yazmin Polls, 10th grade' 'Phil Garret, 12th grade' 'Sarah Highland, 12th grade' it went on and on. Every empty corner held a scientific invention or presentation board that had won some kind of award. Overall, it is hauntingly intimidating. The whole day I felt as though someone was going to pop out of a locker (gargantuan sized lockers, do a person could probably fit in one) and taunt that I am at the wrong school. At my old school, I was a genius, and an artist. Now it is like I am the most average joe there. 

I feel ridiculous for thinking this morning that I might acquire a friend on the first day. I will be lucky to call myself an acquaintance of any of those people, and I am not even sure I want to go that far. I do not fit in with that pool of people.  The school is so humongous that no one batted an eye at me. The teachers did not even announce me as a new student. I have only gone to one school, but I thought every other school did. Is it just a TV thing? 

Dad will be off soon, and come to pick me up. I have already told him where to find me. Seeing as it is almost four pm I should not consume anymore caffeine. Still I run my finger in a circle on the plastic top to my coffee, now empty, wondering if I should grab another. Yesterday night dad handed me twenty dollars. I asked why (he had never done anything like this before). He waved off my qualms, saying it was lunch money. Seems like a hell of a lot of money for lunch. Really I should be hoarding it, being smart with my newfound allowance, but coffee is delicious and overpowers the strongest of wills in the end. I am seconds away from taking the leap when my phone buzzes on the table, stealing my attention. With a swipe of my thumb his voice comes through the speaker which I bring up to my ear.

His greeting is fitted around a sigh. "Hi, Sweetie." Pause. I can imagine him rubbing his eyebrow, a ritual for when he is tired or stressed. "How was school?"

"To be expected. What's up?" I say, passing over his question swiftly. The last thing I want to do is further worry him.

"I know I was supposed to be off...but things are crazy busy here—" 

"I can walk home." 

"No, no, no—"

"Dad, I walked everywhere back home. Our new place is barely a mile and a half away." I interject before he can put my decision to bed wholly. 

There's a long pause on the other line. I believe he shifts the phone from one ear to the other. It is odd how clearly I can picture him when he's not even in front of me. I suppose it comes from years of silently observing his mannerisms in relation to his mood, to best see what he needed from me. He spent so long caring for mom he forgot how to care for himself. 

"Alright, just call me when you get home." I agree. "I'll pick up thai food so we don't have to worry about dinner."

Then, after reminding him what I get (sans the water sprouts), I hang up, left completely to my own devices. My destination is home, indeed, but what lies between me and that conclusion? Sure, I have to call my dad in fifteen minutes or so, but who's to say I could not call him from anywhere, saying I am where I am not? I could buy an espresso or seven and down them like a shot, or walk the long way and get lost, or I could simply place my coffee mug in the bin stationed next to the door, and walk to my new house that does not yet feel like home. The thought flashed across my mind, gone as quick as it arrived. 

I begin to gather my things.

So he sounded stressed, but is that always a bad thing? Maybe he is enjoying his first day at the new job. Maybe he only felt bad about me walking home. Deep down he should know I do not really mind seeing more of this new place I am going to live. Or, maybe, he does not like his job as much as he thought he would. Maybe he only took the job in the first place because he felt like it would be the best for me. Why would someone who has lived in one, small town suddenly rip up his life to move to a loud, exhaustive city? Severely bummed by my own thoughts I push the door on the café, feeling a gust of New York air that pushes up my hair. Passing the time by meandering down the road I fiddle with my phone to show me directions. It might be close, but I don't trust myself to skillfully maneuver my way home, at least not yet. The little pulsing blue dot shows my location, the rode to my destination painted as a ling in front of it. I set off, tentatively letting my phone hang at my side. The people of New York bustle beside me left and right while they remain oblivious to the world around them. I try to study their faces (discreetly, as not to draw attention to myself), but they pass me too quickly for the game to be fun. 

With only half a mile to go, I notice an alley just to my left that leads to my house. A clear shortcut. A glance down at my phone shows it has me going around the block to arrive at my destination. It appears like an alley back home, gravel paved road bookended by various buildings, with garbage bins lined up, and free of people. After a day of constantly being around people all I want to do is be alone. I exit out of the maps down my phone and turn into the shortcut route, stuffing my phone in my back pocket. 

"Where you walkin', little girl?" A voice that sounds as though the owner has a cup of pebbles in his throat. I spin around to see a man brandishing a knife at me. My heart beats harder in my chest as I view the dirt residing under his fingernails, as well as crusting over his hands. At my fear his mouth turns up into a wicked smile. "What's in the backpack?"

"This backpack?" I say, curling my hands around the strands of my backpack. To my knowledge the only weapon this man has is a knife, and looks like a meth addict that dabbles in heroin, probably not a fast runner. If I book it away, what's he going to do, throw it at me? Yet I stand, frozen in my spot, terrified. My first day in New York and i'm getting mugged. Oh, joy. I really don't want to give him my backpack. It has my wallet, ID, laptop, everything. His eyes get more crazy as the seconds tick. "A gun." 

"Do I look stupid to you?" He says, stepping closer to me. I try to step back but the message gets lost somehow on the way to my limbs.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" I quip, immediately wanting to slap myself for being so stupid. Just hand him the backpack! Things are fleeting, you only have one fucking life!

The mans eyes widen in disbelief, surely as surprised at my stupidity as I am, though this faltering is fleeting as he lunges toward me with the blade. I jump back, opening up my mouth to scream, stopping only because a web slings toward the knife, entrapping it. The thief curses as a red blur swings in, making contact with the criminal. Once the body hits the ground with a crack the second person takes their place in a standing position. It's a man about my height wearing a red body suit, decorated with blue accents and a black web design. For a second he only looks at me with an unreadable expression (he's wearing a mask so it's really a toss up if he's smiling or scowling). He steps forward to me, and I finally come to my senses and back away, my hands gripping even tighter on my backpack straps.

"Are you okay?" He asks, sounding confused. I am also surprised to hear he sounds younger, but with a layer of some weird pseudo New York accent that's more humorous than believable.

"Yes. I'm fine. Who the hell are you?" I say, decidedly not trusting any stranger from here on out, especially not a freak in a mask. 

"I-i'm Spider-man. Your friendly neighborhood web-slinger?" 

His getup looks more familiar now that he put a face to the whole look. He was a part of the Berlin fiasco. "Right. One of Tony Stark's posse of superheroes. The ones wreaking havoc on earth." I elaborate for him, crossing my arms.

"No! We're the good guys!" He says, sounding genuinely defensive. 

In truth, I haven't kept up on the superhero craze that's swept most of the world. Living on the west coast, you just don't hear much about it. The east coast is like some mystical other world, and one can pretend it's all a story, a children's tale. Then my dad got called to deal with the legal fallout of the Avengers, and suddenly I began to hear nothing but that. According to my dad, Tony Stark is a menace who only pretends to care about the national security, and people in general. In actuality, he's a drunk asshole. I was still in elementary school when he created Iron Man, refusing in that infamous meeting to share his tech with the government, therefore segmenting his branding as a troublemaker. 

I scrutinize his face, as he staunchly defends his position. I give up, continuing on my walk, saying behind me, "keep telling yourself that, Spidey."

My hopes that Spider-Man has webbed his way away from me are squashed when I hear the crunch of gravel behind me. I look over my shoulder without stopping. "Are you following me?" 

"I don't want you getting hurt." 

"I'll be fine, my house is right at the end of this alley."

"The alley you were just followed in and MUGGED!" 

"No, I almost got mugged before Spider-Man swooped in to save me. How did you even know someone followed me, huh? Were you just perched somewhere watching me, you weirdo? I would've been fine on my own."

"Are you forgetting I just saved you?" He exclaims, jogging to catch up with me, "That hobo was about to stab you."

I pat down my stomach and peer behind me at my back purely for sass. "Hm, funny, I'm certainly not stabbed." 

"Oh my God, you're insufferable."

"Then why do you insist on spending so much time with me?" I ask, refusing to look at him.

"Listen, I'll just walk behind you. You'll barely notice I'm here." He says.

I cross my arms defiantly, trying to conjure another reason to complain. "I don't know how I feel having some rando know where I live." 

"How many times am I going to have to tell you, I'm a good guy! I'm an avenger!" 

I side-eye him. "Sure you are. That why you're stuck stopping low-level muggers in Forest Hills."

"Someone's gotta look out for the little guy." He shrugs.

"I don't know if you think you sound heroic," I say, "but calling me 'the little guy' is kind of insulting."

"I thought you said you had it all under control." He teases, going to elbow me before realizing it would probably be best to not.

Now it's my turn to shrug. "I did."

"Sure you did." 

We walk out of the narrow path together, me leading the way down the sidewalk, my house three houses away. Little to no one is around, therefore sparing me of the odd looks I would glean from walking with Spider-man home. He keeps glancing at me sideways like he has something else to say. 

"What?" I finally prompt.

"Why were you walking alone down an alley in the first place? New York and a dark alley aren't exactly a good mix." He says with a tone in his voice suggesting he's not trying to piss me off.

"Back home, alleys were just another street. No jumpy meth heads with knives." I say. Maybe it was stupid to go traipsing down an alley in a city I don't know. Not that I would ever admit that. 

"Back home?"

I stop walking, having landed, finally, at my house. "So many questions." I bound up the steps to my door, shoving the key in impatiently to swing it open. "See ya, Spidey." 

I smile a small smile before closing the door behind me.


End file.
